


Green-Eyed Monster

by Smirkdoctor (orphan_account)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Badass Mary, Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, F/M, Gun play, Infidelity, canon scene remix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-23
Updated: 2017-10-23
Packaged: 2019-01-22 00:36:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12469564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Smirkdoctor
Summary: Sherlock didn't expect John Watson to have moved on during his time away. But even more unexpected is the longing he feels for his replacement. And what happens when she gets him alone.





	Green-Eyed Monster

**Author's Note:**

  * For [songlin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/songlin/gifts).



> Forgive me, fandom, for I have sinned.

It started with a tiny foot, UK size 4 to be precise, slipped out of the shoe and gently massaging his left ankle in a seedy restaurant while Sherlock tried to convince John Watson that their friendship was worth saving. 

He felt the pressure, the intention behind the slow stroking movement, and spared the blonde, John’s girlfriend...fiancee...whatever...a glance. And choked on his inhale.

Those eyes, a pale meadow green, were assessing him, and sat atop a small, knowing smile that, without a word, offered an entire menu of delights. Three years ago and he might have missed it, but, through repetitions of similar expressions from John himself, Irene Adler, Molly Hooper...the motive was clear.

Thirty minutes later, Sherlock watched her swaying walk as she retreated to the waiting cab, rejoining his hostile former blogger. He pressed a tissue to his bloodied nose, inhaling deep the sensual fragrance of her perfume, the scent of midnight, cold moonlight over pale flesh, and flashing, green eyes.

This...could be dangerous.

 

*~*~*

 

Two days later, Mary arrived on his landing and quite effectively distracted him from the wonderful greasiness of fish and chips. She presented a beautiful picture: chest heaving, cheeks glowing, and the promise of peril in her eyes. She read him a skip code and they were off on a rescue mission.

Sherlock could have hailed a cab. Hell, he could probably have pulled a helicopter with a call to Mycroft. But he wanted to test the chemistry zinging between him and his...replacement. 

So he commandeered a motorbike and, less than a minute later, sat cradled in the warm, strong heat of Mary Morstan’s welcoming thighs. He took corners at top speed, raced down staircases...all to hear her tiny exhalatory gasps as she rubbed intimately against his back and the vibrating seat. Her arms around his chest were strong and comforting, and the softness of her breasts against the marks of torture on his back was the best type of balm.

 

*~*~*

 

Sherlock worked diligently, fanning the embers from the night of a bank holiday bonfire, encouraging the spark between himself and the bride-to-be. Cheeky winks and lingering glances became the norm as he took a significant chunk of the wedding planning out of the hands of the lackadaisical couple. But while Mr. Watson was given an out from most appointments, there were dates the future Mrs. simply couldn’t miss. 

There were dress fittings and glances of smooth, flushed flesh; cake and wine tastings with shared moans of decadence at the richness of the planned revelry. He spent hours considering the perfect shade of lilac to complement Mary’s eyes, obsessed to the point that she nearly had to force him to spend some time with his nominally best friend, and they grudgingly headed out to their daily grind of boring cases.

His mind was so full of Mary, Sherlock found it hard to write complimentary phrases about John for his toast. But he persevered, knowing he must, so the entire crowd wouldn’t read his face, his tone, and his words as evidence of his infatuation. At the wedding, Mary’s radiant, smiling face, occasionally looking past her groom to lock eyes with the Best Man, was the one feature of interest.

Until a case appeared, and Mary began to glow like she hadn’t since Bonfire Night. She ran after John and Sherlock, joining in the race to save a life. She was resplendent. 

But it was in John’s arms that she celebrated the victory. And when Sherlock divined the news of her pregnancy and watched the couple dance off into their future, he felt his world break in two. Unable to stand seeing of the object of his fantasies in the arms of the man who was supposed to be his rock, he left, wrapping himself in woolen armour against the chill of solitude.

 

*~*~*

 

The newlyweds’ sex holiday sent him reeling...imagining John in the warm space between Mary’s thighs stunng like a flesh wound, and he grasped at anything to numb the pain. 

Three weeks into a binge, semi-lucid as he bought his next hit, he glanced a newspaper and saw a muckraked piece on a prominent member of Parliament in a paper run by Charles Magnussen, and thought there might be a way to spin his new-old habit for good. The work had distracted him when he couldn’t have John. It was worth a try now.  

If he couldn’t indulge in Mary’s sweet curves, which would only grow more supple as her body prepared to nurture a child, he would indulge in cases.

 

*~*~*

 

John found him at the wrong moment, his concern misplaced, unwanted. Sherlock’s heart did swell at the sight of Mary driving the tiny car the Watsons shared, and he felt an ember of warmth in his chest when she taunted him about his nickname, those beautiful green eyes sparkling with mirth in the mirror.

After a well-deserved slap from Molly, an entertaining interlude with Janine (a rather ingenious cover for his attraction to Mary), and some hand-waving to distract from his withdrawal, Sherlock was headed to take down Magnussen.

 

*~*~*

 

The elevator opened on the penthouse floor, and his nose knew Mary was there before he could deduce anything else. He was so attuned to her fragrance, the Clair de la Lune he had smelled in technicolor fantasy for months. 

An unconscious Janine alongside a brutalized thug served as a convenient distraction for the physician/soldier at his side, and Sherlock creeped to the hidden part of the office, hoping against hope that Mary wasn’t harmed.  _ Why did she always run toward danger?  _

_ And would he want her if she didn’t? _  
  


Sherlock exhaled as if he had just been punched in the gut. There stood Mary...John’s Mary... _ his _ Mary...sleek in head-to-toe black, strong and powerful, with the most manipulative newsman in London on his knees before her. 

He stepped forward, offering to help her, though she didn’t seem to need it. He stood frozen, watching the exquisite, fluid motion of her limbs as she knocked Magnussen out and completed the arc with her pistol pointed at his heart.

His hands hovered above his head as, with two fingers digging into his chest, she shoved him up against the large mirror on the wall behind him. She slotted a thigh between his legs and pushed it up against his heavy bollocks and full erection. She smiled at his moan, and carelessly ran the barrel of the pistol along the angle of his jaw.

“Well, Mr. Holmes. We’re finally totally alone. And you know my _ little secret. _ Colour me amazed that you hadn’t already guessed.”

She dropped her green eyes to his lips, then rose on her toes to bite gently on his full lower lip, her left hand dropping to his trousers to loosen his belt and undo his flies. He gasped out another desperate breath.

“ _ Think _ , Sherlock,” she said, tapping the gun barrel against his temple before moving it back to his jugular. “Why would a nurse know the first thing about skip code? Why would she run along behind her nutter husband and his crazy best friend,  _ toward _ a murder instead of away?”

She brought her left hand up to her mouth and bit on a fingertip of her leather glove, shaking her head like a predator killing prey to free her hand from its encasing fabric. Sherlock watched, wide-eyed, as she brought her finger to her lips and sucked a generous coating of moisture onto it. 

Mary reached into the front of his briefs and grasped his cock, squeezing rhythmically with her palm while three fingers caressed his balls. She slid back even further to circle the pucker of his hole, letting her arm provide friction to his erection. Her gun hand fell to the side and she captured his mouth with such force that his bottom lip split against his teeth. She licked at the blood as she pushed a spit-slicked fingertip into his anus, and continued her slow grind against him.

“I guess the clues never quite came together for you, my poor little detective,” she breathed the words into his ear, speaking around his small grunted breaths. “Too distracted by a pretty face and perky breasts?”

She laughed as her finger penetrated further and he gasped, somehow instantly teetering on the edge of orgasm. She punctuated her next, whispered words, with excruciatingly slow grinds against his straining, leaking cock, the effort behind the pressure exhaled between phrases.

“Who knew? *grind* The great Sherlock Holmes may not be *grind*  _ sentimental _ . But he is *grind*... _ human _ .” 

She crooked her finger to brush against his prostate as she bit his earlobe. He cried out with his nearly painful climax. Mary smiled at the warmth she felt spreading inside his trousers.

“Well. Someone likes some penetration along with his gunplay.” She placed a whisper-soft kiss against his panting lips before impaling him with that green-eyed gaze. “But I need you to promise me two things.”

She slid her finger out of him, and he acknowledged her movement and her statement with the same whimper. 

“Don’t tell John about seeing me here,” she muttered into his ear with a slight squeeze to his bollocks, “and  _ don’t _ approach me for a repeat.”

She withdrew her hand from his trousers and pressed the gun more firmly against his jaw. “I’ll come to you. Are we clear?”

As she moved to step back, he leaned forward, anxious to catch her lips, to pull her back flush with his body, to beg her to let him follow wherever she went.

“Oh, no, Sherlock. We can’t have  _ that _ .”

She shook her head slowly, rubbing their noses together and breathing calm, measured breaths over his lips. She inhaled sharply as John’s voice echoed from the front office, his tones urgent as he summoned an ambulance for Janine.

“You brought John along?” Her green eyes iced over and Sherlock felt fear for the first time since being back from his mission. She moved the gun to his chest and he braced for his punishment. “Oh Sherlock. Why did you have to spoil our grand time?”

He felt the barrel of the gun dig deeper as Mary moved closer, brushing a kiss over his right cheek.

**Author's Note:**

> And...there it is. I've gotta say, the whole Sherlock pining for Mary angle came together with much more ease than I expected. So perhaps there really was a sad, unrequited love story between a man and his best friend’s wife going on THE WHOLE TIME.
> 
> Anyhow, songlin was the impetus, with their triple-dog dare for me to write Marylock when I was taking all comers for prompts. But I really like this badass, take no prisoners Mary, because, let's face it...she's kind of too good for either of the guys. And the vague ending lets you fill in the blanks. Is this simply a literal take as the “gunshot as penetration” theory? Or does she do both?
> 
> Oh, and the Green-Eyed Monster of the title refers to envy, not Mary.


End file.
